


Incommunicado

by WhoNatural



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Gift-Giving, Commitment, Derek Needs To Use His Words, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mild Angst, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Silly boys and their feelings, started out as failwolf but not failwolf, suspicions of cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoNatural/pseuds/WhoNatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why is Derek being so weird?</p><p>  <em>Derek looks up from where he’s adjusting his shirt back into his pants - really? - and pauses. “Stiles?”</em></p><p>  <em>Clearly something in his scent is giving him away, but he’s too busy swallowing against the sting of bile that has made its way into his throat and checking behind the couch for future murder victims because Derek is totally cheating on him.</em><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Incommunicado

**Author's Note:**

> So I got the idea for this watching an old episode of Friends. I was going to failwolf my way through it, but somehow shit got a little serious and it didn't feel right.
> 
> Also somewhere in the crossposting, half the instances of the word 'more' somehow disappeared. I'll fix it when I'm not on an iPad which evidently hates AO3.

The thing is, even though he _knows_ Derek can do all these things - the scenting, the strength, the fucking Cirque Du Soleil agility - there’s like an unspoken agreement between them that he _doesn’t._ Not unless there’s just cause, like mortal peril or when it’s really fucking hot to be manhandled up a flight of stairs in the dark.

So really, the alarm bells should be sounding off, flashing bright freaking _danger_ - _red_ when Derek swings the door open before Stiles gets the chance to knock (which, _gah!)._

It isn’t that, though. No, what makes Stiles freeze in place at the sight waiting for him once the door clears the entryway, spilling a swath of out-of-place scents and sounds into the hall, is the fact that the endlessly unflappable Derek Hale looks, well, _flapped._

There’s a serious case of bed-hair going on on one side of his head. It’s kind of depressing in that it’s actually toeing the line between sexy and adorable, but the latter is winning out because there’s - what appears to be - some kind of white powder, possibly flour, smudged among the shadow of perpetual stubble on the left of his jaw.

He’s also - and this is weird - dressed in slate grey chinos, has a _button-down_ mostly fastened and half-tucked into them, and - officially entering possible magic curse territory here - is wearing actual shoes. In his own apartment. This is the guy who’d run barefoot in the woods by _choice,_ and now he’s traipsing around in a pair of untied fucking oxfords like it’s business as usual, and Stiles is like eighty-five percent sure he’d said they were having dinner in the loft tonight.

“You’re early,” he says, and Stiles thinks it was supposed to be a clipped accusation but it comes across like a panicked groan.

“I’m… sorry?” he hedges, still trying to figure out if this is a pod person or the guy he’s been pining after for going on five years now, and officially ‘seeing’ for the past four months. “I turned in the last of my term papers early and decided to hit the road when I had the chance,” he explains. “You did say seven, though.”

“Yeah, but ‘seven’ for you usually means eight forty-five, and then you show up at the door out of breath and spewing excuses,” Derek says, and there’s a pinch to his forehead that’s starting to look suspiciously twitchy. The vein on his neck is doing that thing again. “It’s barely six-thirty.”

“We’ll, jeez, I’m sorry that my unexpected punctuality is such an inconvenience for you. Should I come back later? Maybe call in advance?” he snarks, taking a threatening step back into the hallway, and Derek’s brows shoot up.

“No!” he snaps, reaching out abortedly before catching himself. “No, it’s alright, I’m just—” he makes a vague gesture in the direction of the kitchen. “Come in. Please.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, but acquiesces, watching Derek warily as he crosses the threshold. He kind of wishes he’d stopped off at home instead of heading straight for the loft, since his ratty jeans and hoody seem to be way below whatever dress code Derek has enforced in the past four weeks, but he shrugs his backpack off his shoulders and toes off his sneakers anyway. Whatever Derek’s deal is, it’s probably best to play things cool, just like any other visit.

He leans in to kiss him, needing to savour the first actual contact that wasn’t over Skype or lewd text messages, but flinches back when all he gets in return is a half-distracted touch of lips, and then Derek’s pulling away again to run a hand through his hair.

Yeah, big, fat, glaring warning signs right now. With maracas.

“I would have called, but you’ve practically been _incommunicado_ for the past week,” Stiles leads, waiting for some kind of explanation that doesn’t seem to be coming. There’s nothing but a weird, pensive silence emanating from the doorway.

The place is clean. Not that Derek’s a pig by any means, but there’s usually at least an abandoned coffee mug on the floor by his ‘iron throne’ and a couple of books readily paged-through on the table by the couch. Not tonight though - it’s practically pristine, the only thing out of place is the corked bottle of red and two glasses sitting neatly beside it.

Stiles’ stomach drops.

They _never_ have wine. Derek doesn’t even drink, since it’s kind of pointless and a waste of alcohol from a werewolf’s perspective, and he knows Stiles feels kind of awkward being the only one getting a buzz going if it’s just the two of them - so who the hell is the wine for?

A twisted, unfriendly voice from the back of Stiles’ mind prods at him; the same one who tells him Derek’s going to one day snap out of whatever’s going on with them, that his Dad will finally have enough of his shit, that his friends will realise they can have a much quieter and less sarcastic time without him around, or that he’s going to flunk out of college and never keep his promise to his mom.

Derek looks up from where he’s adjusting his shirt back into his pants - _really? -_ and pauses. “Stiles?”

Clearly something in his scent is giving him away, but he’s too busy swallowing against the sting of bile that has made its way into his throat and checking behind the couch for future murder victims because _Derek is totally cheating on him._

Or not. Possibly?.

He hates The Voice; hates that it’s sometimes the loudest thing in his mind even though rationality tells him it’s wrong, and most of all he hates that being confronted with all of _this_ has caught him so off-guard.

He’s not about to just assume foetal position and wail, though. Stiles is not, despite claims made by Jackson, a fourteen year old girl. The hypothetical - and he stresses to The Voice that it’s fucking hypothetical, okay - person Derek may or may not be seeing behind Stiles’ back should be fucking terrified.

Stiles may be first in line to his own pity party, and he might hang out in the darker parts of his own self-worth, but there’s no way in hell he’d take being cheated on lying down. Someone would be getting maimed, okay? And that’s before he even got started on Derek.

Derek, who is probably not even cheating on him and is totally watching him from across the room like some concerned, super-hot bodyguard or something. Stiles wonders idly if the general aesthetic of him is partly to blame for why he feels like someone kicked him in the balls and filed his ribcage open by hand at the mere prospect of losing him. It’s an odd thought, considering how it all began with them.

It’s no secret that they got off to a bad start, okay, and he knows that. Stiles will be the first to admit that what he and Derek had in those early days amounted to a kind of mutual loathing with generous helpings of guilty wet-dreams and unsubtle baiting just to get a rise out of one another. He _knows_ that. But a lot happens in five years.

There had been threats against their lives, and way too time spent blurring the line of legality than Stiles’ dad would be comfortable with, if he knew the full extent of the whole werewolf-thing.

(Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that his dad just doesn’t ask than he strictly needs to, his curiosity well-sated after walking in on his son pulling a wolfsbane bullet out of a wolfed-out Scott’s shoulder.)

After so many nights spent hauling each other out of the line of fire, being thrown together on stupid stake-outs and sharing knowledge once Derek realised that actually, it kind of sucks not knowing the full plan until the last second (thanks, Scott), they’d eased into a kind of… allegiance. Opinions counted. Advice was given. Respect was earned.

The only step forward from there was a tentative friendship, once Stiles figured out that, despite all the posturing and pseudo-confidence displayed by Isaac and co., they really sucked at brutal honesty. Derek needed someone he could trust (not Peter, then) who wasn’t afraid to tell him what an idiot he was being. That someone was definitely Stiles. Stiles had so much experience telling people how dumb they were it should have been on his résumé.

But that’s when things got complicated, because sure, Stiles could handle the whole lusting-after-Derek thing. It probably happened to anyone who laid eyes on the guy (seriously), and he’d fully accepted the state of flux that was his sexuality. Stiles never really did do clean categories well and wanting to see/touch/nuzzle Derek’s dick was hardly a horrifying revelation. What he _hadn’t_ banked on was actually learning about Derek. Getting to know his secret flaws, and catching glimpses of a strange vulnerability that only comes when you’ve known real loss. Discovering his deliciously dry sense of humour and oddly intense love of frozen yoghurt and Edward Norton.

It had been messy. There was some emotionally charged jerking-off and also some very mature avoidance, because, come on, unrequited teenage love. He’d been down that road before, he knew where it lead: self-esteem issues and oddly specific memorisation of facts (he still knows Lydia’s sophomore class schedule). Stiles had no desire to have his heart yanked out through his bellybutton, thanks.

Resulting from that was a period of tense non-arguments while Derek tried to figure out exactly why Stiles was being such ( more of) a dick all the time, and it had all come to a head once Boyd - of all people - had had enough of their shit and told Derek the truth.

Stiles has a love-hate thing with Boyd.

He hadn’t taken it well. Stiles had figured as much, but it still stung. It wasn’t like he _expected_ anything (although being proven right wasn’t exactly a box of kittens), but Derek just had to be all fucking _dramatic_ about it. There was a whole thing with an uncomfortable radio silence for about a week (during which FroYo sales in the area tripled and the loft got way too many new shelves), before he showed up in Stiles’ room ranting about age differences and college and passing crushes - which was frankly insulting. Stiles told him as much.

So that had been that, even though Stiles hadn’t actually seen the need for even discussing it, since Derek didn’t feel the same anyway.

They kind of fell back into a similar old routine after that, but the ease of which they talked or volunteered information wasn’t quite the same. Sentences were cut off, and innuendos were dropped in case misconstrued, and Stiles learned all about being a Mature and Selfless Adult Friend the hard way. It was the kind of torture where he wouldn’t break, because the alternatives was not having Derek in his life at all, and that would just be stupid. So he sucked it up, and he snarked his way through pitying looks, and before Stiles knew it, he was packing for college and moving out… and suddenly everything was easy again.

They were _flirting_ again.

He hadn’t even realised that’s what they were doing all that time until they’d stopped, and fuck, it felt good to just not censor any. The thing was, now that all the awkwardness had been dealt with, the absolutely brain-melting thing about the mutual flirting was that Derek _knew_ he was doing it.

It seemed that all it took was for Stiles to move three hours away, and not remind Derek that he was just past the jailbait watershed by sleeping in bed that still had _Pokemon_ stickers on the headboard, for things to grow. Maybe it’d be unwise to disregard the whole Alpha-werewolf-with-possessive-streak-a-mile-wide either. There was probably a bit of that. And so it went. And that was that.

Okay, no, it took them three years of dancing around one another, Peter’s all-too-gleeful meddling, this thing with a troll and a cursed doll (he still has nightmares about Veterinarian Barbie, seriously), and a couple of disastrous attempts at dating/fooling around with other people to finally become each other’s New Year’s kiss. Now it’s April.

And Derek is fucking someone else.

_He wouldn’t._

Stiles’ chest is threatening to seize up, but _fuck no_ he is not losing it over this. The idea is ridiculous, he _knows_ that _;_ his brain is catching up now with his initial reaction and rational thought is powering through. They had worked too hard on the distance and waited too fucking long to give in to what was between them for Stiles to just shut down over some stupid insecurity.

The Voice supplies that they haven’t even fucked yet, which, granted is kind of true.

There’s been sex. Plenty of the everything-but-the-butts. Intercrural all up in this bitch. _Sans pene-tra-ti-on._

The Voice supplies that maybe Derek’s got bored of taking things slow and spending their time learning each other and found someone who does whatever.

He squeezes his thumb in his fist and scans the room for some other explanation of what the _hell_ is going on, because being in his own head is turning into a mind-fuck.

There’s candles - fucking _candles! -_ and now that he’s standing in front of it, he notices a blanket and extra cushions nestled on the couch. He clenches his jaw.

“Stiles, your heartbeat is fucking— What’s wrong?” Derek’s voice is rife with concern, and he takes a step forward carefully.

“What’s all this?” Stiles deflects innocently, gesturing to the wine and edging towards the kitchen. Derek’s oddly inserted himself between him and the doorway leading there and he recognises the guilty-puppy face when he sees it.

“I just thought… I made pasta for dinner and the guy at the store said…” His eyes widen. “Wait, you like Italian food, right?”

Stiles gives him a flat look, taking another step. “I like anything edible and fatty that doesn’t taste like _cardboard,_ you know this,” he replies. “Hold up… you cooked?”

“Peter provided scathing criticism during the entire pasta-making process,” he replies, petulant. “I don’t know if it helped.”

“You _made_ your own pasta?”

“Peter said it was… never mind.” He narrows his eyes. “Why are you _skulking_?”

“Why are _you_ skulking?” Stiles shoots back, pausing mid-step. “That’s totally your skulk face. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Derek says, expression relaxing into a mask of innocence.

“Are you sure? What’s with the…” He gestures abruptly to Derek’s clothes.

A frown. “The what?”

“The clothes! The fucking _shoes_!” Stiles snaps, his voice coming out louder than intended and he kind-of-rudely points to Derek’s feet with both hands. “I thought we were staying in tonight.”

“We are,” Derek replies, shifting his feet around awkwardly before picking at the shirt cuff rolled onto his forearm, looking for all the world like a six-year-old dressed for church.

“Then why are you— Were you expecting company?” _Oh god, why is he even_ _asking, like it’s possible_?

Derek looks completely lost, which is pretty comforting. “No, just you…?”

Stiles squints. “Are you sure?” _Fuck, shut up, Stilinski._

“Yes, Jesus, Stiles, what’s with all the questions?”

“So it’s just you and me here?” he says, trying not to let the discomfort through in his voice. It doesn’t work, because he can’t help glancing at the wine glasses, and Derek’s face contorts in confusion before melting into a flat stare.

“No, I’ve got this guy tied to my bed upstairs, but I told him I couldn’t let him out until I got rid of you,” he deadpans, “You should really get going, I think the Viagra I roofied him with is about to kick in.”

After a long moment, Stiles fights a smirk at the wave of relief that goes through him, because okay, yeah, he’s being a complete douche over nothing but some errant glassware and Derek’s fucking _indulging_ him. In that completely-inappropriate, dark-humoured, Derek kind of way.

“So happy you admitted it,” he snarks, giving in and reaching for the wine.

“ _Really,_ Stiles?” He retorts irritably. “You think I’d start fucking someone else _and_ have them over here the day you get home? What the fuck would I do with them? Throw them down the fire escape?”

“I… no? You’re being _really_ weird, okay?” Stiles defends, sipping the over-full glass before slumping on the couch.

“I’m—” Derek starts, brows raised, but he presses his lips together and huffs a breath out through his nose. “What, just because I want to make an effort since I haven’t seen you in a month?”

He sounds sincere, but his eyes are trained somewhere on Stiles forehead, because Derek was raised in a family of human bullshit-detectors, and he never learned how to tell a white lie convincingly.

Unless it’s by omission, or it’s to Scott. (Sorry, Scott.)

Stiles isn’t buying it for a second. “We’ve gone longer than that,” he says, studying him with intent, and notes that werewolves can fidget with the best of ‘em. “Something’s happening here.”

There’s a muttered curse as Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. Whatever he’s about to say, he gives up and turns towards the kitchen. “Whatever. Fuck it. Let’s just have dinner.”

.

Now, Stiles feels like shit. It’s not like he _meant_ to crap all over whatever it is that Derek’s doing (and he’d still like a little nudge as to what the hell that is), but an awkward silence has descended over them as they pick at the pasta.

“This is amazing,” Stiles offers, pointing to his plate with his fork. All he gets in return is a muttered ‘thanks’ and Derek’s eyes don’t leave his food. Stiles chews the crust of his garlic bread into mush with unease, because it’s only when that stupidly chiselled jaw stops moving when he talks that you know shit’s gotten bad.

There are a few beats of silence, and Stiles doesn’t miss the unsubtle looks sneaking at him through stupidly lush eyelashes.

“Do you like the wine?” he finally asks, quietly, and Stiles plays up his enthusiasm to at least Emmy-worthy levels.

“Really great choice. I, uh, don’t know much but it doesn’t taste like vinegar so, win..?”

Derek looks suitably satisfied and nods like he’s mentally patting himself on the back. _Good job, Derek, 10/10. Thanks, Derek. No problem, bro._

“I can put on some, um, music or something,” he says next, awkward and stilted and Stiles shrugs, because this is so far from Derek normally teasing him and matching his snark that it’s putting him on edge. He watches as the pasta twirls around his fork, contemplating it. It’s hardly a minute before he can hold the silence no .

“I’m sorry I got all douchey. I still forget you can be all—” he gestures blindly, “Romantic and stuff. It’s kinda new for me.”

Derek’s eyebrows jerk and his mouth turns down, letting the pause linger before he says, “‘S fine. Was kind of a dumb idea anyway.”

“Hey, no it wasn’t,” Stiles frowns. “This is awesome. You’re awesome. Consider me thoroughly wooed.”

Their eyes meet, and there’s something in that expression that’s sad and cautious, and Stiles _hates_ it. He watches as Derek opens his mouth to say something else, but before it comes out, he crams in a forkful of tagliatelle and chews like he’s got a grudge - eyes darting down and away, catching momentarily on his ‘throne’ by the kitchen entryway.

“Can we pretend I wasn’t an asshole and start tonight over?” Stiles asks, because whatever Derek’s resolutely not saying doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. He gets a wry look in return. “Okay, that I wasn’t of an asshole than usual.”

An actual smirk this time, but it’s quickly clamped down.

“How about I promise to do that _thing—_ or maybe let you do the _other_ thing… after dessert, and you take it as my humble apolo—”

“Did you really think I could be seeing someone else?” Derek interrupts, and he snaps his eyes shut. Stiles flounders for a second until Derek opens them again, pinning him with a look.

“I…” he replies, sighing, “No. Well, I didn’t totally think so.”

It’s the wrong answer. Derek drops his fork roughly onto his plate and deposits them on the coffee table. His jaw is tight and he’s nodding his head like this is no less than he expected, but he doesn’t like being right.

“No, I meant… Look, it’s not about you, okay? I was just…” Stiles clambers, putting his plate beside Derek’s. “Look, you’ve been really distant this past week, and it’s not like I’m here all that much, and you’re _you_ and fuck… Anyone would want—”

“There _isn’t_ anyone,” Derek interrupts, steely.

“I know, okay? In my head, I know, but it’s just this gut reaction I’m trying to work on. It’s not like I haven’t worried maybe you’re sick of _waiting..”_

“Waiting was a joint decision,” Derek frowns. “And it’s not waiting. It’s… taking things slow.” He looks at his hands, lips quirking. “I kind of liked getting to know…you. What you like,” he says, and it’s almost shy and Stiles almost wants to chew his own hand off at how ridiculous this guy is.

“No, totally! I am one hundred percent on board with how we’ve been doing things. Completely. It’s just a complex I have, okay? Of the inferiority kind.”

“Jesus, Stiles, I know I’m not good at showing—”

“It’s not _you!_ It’s my issue. Some stupid reflex I can’t really control… whatever. Just think of it as left-over loserhood from when I didn’t have a hope in hell of landing someone like you.”

“You didn’t _land_ me, Stiles.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, holding up a hand. “Look, it doesn’t matter - I was a dick to even hint about it and I’m sorry, okay?”

Derek bites his lip, and his gaze flicks towards the chair again, and Stiles _has_ to ask.

“Alright, what is the deal with the chair?”

Derek’s eyes snap back, caught out. His lips part, and there’s an odd moment that Stiles realises Derek’s actually struggling for words, not just taciturn, and he takes a deep breath.

“Move in with me,” he blurts, and Stiles… has no idea what the hell to do with _that._

“I.. _What?”_

“Move in with me. You could do that. We could hire a truck and—” Derek says, and his eyes are wide like even _he_ can’t believe what the hell he’s saying.

“Derek…” Stiles says cautiously, not quite sure if his answer will be the withered cherry on top of the craptastic sundae that is this dinner, but there’s no way around it. “We’ve been together _four months._ I’m still in college… _”_

There’s a strange expression on Derek’s face like he’d completely forgotten, and he shakes his head. “Yeah, no, you’re right… Of course.”

He sounds so distracted that Stiles can’t help but lean forward and touch his arm. “Dude, did you actually want me to move in with you, or is this about something else?”

There’s hardly a moment to breathe before Derek jerks up and starts pacing, eyes seeing nothing and Stiles just watches, baffled.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts to say, physically biting his lip to cut the words off. “I mean, that wasn’t—” is muffled among babbles before he halts by the chair, looking once at Stiles and reaching behind it. “Here.”

Stiles can only sit there as Derek strides over and presents him with - of all things - a _drawer._

“What the hell is—”

“Commitment,” Derek blurts, stepping back nervously, and Stiles wonders when the hell _he_ became the only one with the brain-to-mouth filter. Derek’s holding one hand out in the worlds least-enthusiastic flourish and avoiding eye contact like the plague, like he’s bracing himself for something horrible.

“Commitment,” Stiles parrots, staring down at it. It’s oak and heavy, taken from the dresser in Derek’s bedroom, has a squished blue gift-bow stuck haphazardly to one corner and it’s pretty obvious what the hell the big idiot is trying to say. A smile tugs at Stiles mouth, but Derek still can’t seem to look at him.

“It’s for your stuff. When you stay over. You can keep your stuff in there… And your stuff will be here for when you come back. If you want. To have stuff…here.”

He’s telling all of this to the patch of couch to his left, but Stiles is pretty certain he’s supposed to respond.

“I’m aware of what a drawer is for, man,” he replies, trying so damn hard not to break the moment by laughing hysterically. Derek Hale is standing in front if him, offering a Boyfriend Drawer and looking like it’s ripping several of his vertebrae out to do it.

Derek nods, solemn. “Yeah. So, it’s yours. For your stuff. Commitment.”

Stiles can’t take the awkwardness. He picks off the little bow, sets the drawer aside and stands, stepping in front of Derek. He’s still not able to quite catch his gaze.

“This is what you were planning tonight?” he asks, waving the little decoration around and gets a curt nod in reply. Suddenly, the whole world makes sense again - the clothes, the wine, the _candles_ … and that little pathetic bow has pretty much melted any traces of manly stoicism in Stiles.

“I gotta ask, what the hell brought this on?”

“It’s just—” he mumbles back, frowning, complete with a healthy nostril-flare. “It’s a symbol of—”

“Commitment, yeah, I got that,” Stiles smirks helplessly. “I want to know where you got it into your head that I need this.”

Derek’s eyes meet his briefly, and he scrubs a hand through his hair. There’s an odd conflict happening in the green of them and he stubbornly forces his gaze down to his feet.

”’ _Emotionally constipated werewolves_ ,’” he quotes, brow furrowing, and Stiles is officially lost.

“I…. _What?”_

“It’s what you said,” Derek clarifies, teeth clenching. “Something about, uh, abandonment issues, and then you said ‘ _a little commitment isn’t too much to ask_ ’.”

Stiles just stares for a moment, and it’s excruciating because Derek won’t _look_ at him and he has no freaking clue what this is all about and—

And then the penny drops.

“Lydia,” Stiles says, back of his hand gently batting at the crook of Derek’s elbow. “You heard me on the phone with Lydia.”

“It’s what you said, isn’t it?” Derek asks, eyes finally meeting his fully.

Stiles nods. “Yeah, it’s what I said, but that was a private conversation. I swear to god, fucking werewolves,” he chuckles nervously.

Derek’s eyes close off, sharp and defensive. “Doesn’t make it untrue.”

He steps out of Stiles’ reach and turns, shoulders taut with tension. It aches to watch, because Derek had, to his knowledge, heard Stiles verbally trashing him to someone else and was _still_ trying to give him this - no matter how out of his comfort zone it was. A rush of pure unbridled affection surges through him, and he grins.

“Sure it doesn’t, but maybe you should brush up on your eavesdropping, because _we weren’t talking about you.”_

Derek blanches.

“Yeah,” he continues, aiming for casual, taking a slow step closer to where he wants to be. “If you’d really thought about it, you’d realise that Lydia called _me_ to vent about Jackson. She was pissed because he’s being evasive about transferring back to Cali for post-grad, like he promised.”

“Jackson?”

“Yeah, _Jackson,”_ Stiles says smugly, stepping to the side so he can watch Derek’s face, make sure he _gets_ it. “I’m basically a sounding board for Lydia’s rants, because he and Allison are basically friends and she doesn’t want to put Danny in the middle. Me? I’m open with my dislike for that dick. I’ll dazzle anyone with my many creative ways of insulting him.”

Derek has gone very still, and Stiles can see everything sinking in slowly, his eyes training to the drawer on the coffee table.

“You don’t think I have commitment issues,” Derek states, quiet and slow.

“Dude, I’m a twenty-two year old guy. You’re my first honest-to-god relationship and senior year is kicking my ass. I do _not_ need you to put a ring on it.”

There’s a soft curve of Derek’s lip when he looks down and left. Stiles is counting it as a victory.

“And you?” he goes on, “I knew what I was getting into here. It’d be a dick move to expect you to change suddenly just because we’re together. My blow jobs aren’t _that_ good, man.”

This time there’s even a soft huff of laughter. Stiles’ heart _thrums_.

“You’re working through some stuff. I get it. And you’ll tell me if there’s some kind of major roadblock. I know that.”

“You trust me,” Derek says, and again it’s not a question.

“Of _course_ I—” Stiles starts, because he really freaking does, and then something occurs to him. “Wait, is that what all of this - the clothes, the home-cooked dinner, the musi… the _moving-in thing_ was about? You thought I needed some grand gesture to believe you were into me?

Derek turns, and the sheepish look is answer enough.

“Oh my god, Derek, _my_ issue, not yours,” he pauses. “What would you have done if I’d said yes?”

There’s just a shrug before he forms a reply.

“I just meant to give you the drawer.. I… panicked,” Derek admits, like it’s costing him something to do so, and Stiles can’t help it, he laughs. Loudly. “You insinuated that you believed I was cheating on you,” he protests, gruff and attempting a seriousness Stiles just doesn’t have the capacity for right now. “Like I don’t.. feel… _that way_ about you.”

Stiles knows what ‘ _that way’_ is, and yeah, Derek doesn’t say it, not to anyone, ever. But it’s not like Stiles doesn’t feel its meaning in what he does. How he is.

He just hadn’t realised Derek had been beating himself up about not being _there_ yet.

“So you suggested moving in together instead of saying..that? I actually thought you’d learned to choose your words,” Stiles says, exasperated. He closes the short distance between them and threads this fingers with Derek’s left hand. “Or at least realised that I don’t really _need_ you to use them at all. And I don’t need grand gestures of commitment to know you’re into me.” He lifts a sardonic brow. “The very fact that you’ve tolerated me this long is proof enough.”

Derek’s grip wraps around his, and there’s a feeling of pure power in the way he gravitates towards Stiles, mirroring his body almost subconsciously.

Stiles pulls him in by the tether of their hands, brushing his over-active lips across chapped, over-bitten softness and devilish stubble, and he just _inhales_. He could stand there, unmoving, breathing Derek in because _this_ is how they do things. They’re learning each other. Learning _from_ each other. Lending spare parts to what is broken.

It’s as terrifying as it is comforting, because once their repairs become intertwined, there’s such a greater risk when pulling apart again.

Derek’s always the first to break; the first to touch and he’s tactile than he had ever seemed before. There’s a map of every dip and angle of Stiles’ body tattooed in that brain somewhere. There’s no inch of Stiles skin that hasn’t been explored.

Stiles uses his own momentum against him, pulling them both down onto the couch, pinned beneath Derek and nary a pause for breath between kisses. They’re slow, lazy, this-is-all-I-can’t-say kisses, kisses to promise and reassure and pave the way for the type that makes their breath come short and their hips rut and Stiles grip bruisingly into biceps.

“You know,” he pants, and there’s no air in the room but it’s hardly a worry. “Instead of jumping about three relationship stages and - _oh, fuck_ \- asking me to live with you. You could have just - _shiit_ -finally fucked me.. Would have had the same meaning.”

Derek pulls back to take in the undoubtedly impish grin beneath him, and raises a brow.

“Or, y’know,” he continues, “Let me fuck you.”

There’s a sharp intake of air at that, and very little in the way of real talk after. Somewhere between the loss of clothes, slicked up fingers and teasing strokes, Stiles licks his lips, gasps in a ragged breath and makes a declaration.

“Totally… _fuck_..” he bites out, abrupt and shameless, “Totally keeping the drawer though. No backsies. It’s mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am [howlnatural](http://howlnatural.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
